Brawl Nation
by rgbaldwin92
Summary: As Earth enters its final days of existence, strangers across the US are invited to participate in a nationwide battle royale to the death where the winners are given a chance at survival.
1. 1:1 - Colt

Part One - Invitation to Brawl

Chapter One - Colt

Las Vegas, NV - July 12th, 2025

In a noisy bar in a part of Vegas progress had left behind, Colt was building up a decent buzz and well on his way to getting roaring drunk. The bar, decorated in 1970s Americana and Evel Knievel paraphernalia, was packed with patrons of an unsavory variety; beatniks, bikers, tramps, and thugs. And keeping watch, order, and tending the bar, were robot server prototypes appropriately called Barlies.

The sharpshooter felt low and hopeless, as this particular Saturday night was his last performance at the Shoot'em Up Burlesque Show at the Golden Nugget. As an entertainer in the sin capital of the world, he couldn't imagine he'd ever be out of a job. When the world changed, Vegas adapted, forever staying the city that attracted gamblers and party goers. When labor cost became a burden on a business's success, machines replaced the staff. When Americans could no longer afford to gamble, raunchous live acts took up in sections of empty casinos. But now, even buxom girls in tight corsets and suave, handsome, charming gunmen

-with great hair, never forget the hair, Colt would say-

couldn't pull the out-of-towners off Fremont Street.

Four Queens was the first to kill its blinking lights forever. Then Binion's and Main Street Station Casino in the same night weeks later. The D followed suit with Golden Gate on its coattails. This continued until just Fremont Casino and the Golden Nugget remained, but neither establishment showcasing its full light show or powering its entire floor in an effort to cut costs. Then, on this night that Colt planned to drink himself into oblivion, Golden Nugget closed its doors for good.

This was America now. A nation in decay, rotting and dying from the inside out.

Colt had begun with tall boys of Pabst Blue Ribbon, savoring his drink of choice from his college days. Since he had entered showbusiness, he had avoided beer and dark liquors. Bad for the figure. But now he decided, what the hell is the point? Let me get fat, he thought.

But beer was too slow and after too many he'd be bloated and tired. So he had switched to whiskey after two PBRs.

"A wild night is now pre-ordained," he told the Barley-bot behind the bar as the machine poured a double.

"I may be detained," Barley responded. Eat your heart out Siri, these guys knew show tune lyrics.

And that wasn't all they knew. Barlies operated off facial recognition software installed in the yellow eye in the middle of their domed heads. You could order food and drinks from an app on your phone and they could find you in a bar in seconds. Not near the Barley bringing your cocktail? No problem. They were linked to a cloud, so the Barley serving could see what the Barley behind the bar could. Using their network, they were pretty nifty. Rumor was, if you were able to hack the Barley cloud, you could bounce from bar to bar across the US spying on far away patrons using the technology.

Colt was now two double whiskeys in. Sipping on his third, someone fell hard against his back, bumping him loose from his barstool and causing him to spill.

"Listen, jackass," he snapped, swiveling to look a man half a foot taller and 100 pounds heavier in his bloodshot eyes.

"You got somethin' to say?" the beast of a man asked, jabbing a figure into Colt's chest.

"S'maddur a'fact I do," Colt said poking the man back. The man didn't budge. "I think ya'should 'pologize fer bein' so damn ugly."

"Is that right?" the man was now gritting his teeth. He reached out and grabbed Colt by the lapels of his costume vest.

"Conflict will not be tolerated," Behind-the-bar-Barley said, cheerfully.

"Thasss right. Punk."

Colt was a lot of things. Good-looking. Charming. Funny. Toned. Tanned. And witty. He also had a great head of hair. But one thing he _was _not, was good at keeping his mouth shut.

The man lifted Colt from the ground by the lapels. They had drawn the attention of two other Barley-bots, who were now standing behind the hulking man.

"Conflict will not be tolerated," they said in unison with Behind-the-bar-Barley. All three were still cheery.

Colt could tell he was out matched, but he had a backup. He reached in the messenger bag slung around his shoulder and withdrew one of the two pistols he used in the show and aimed it awkwardly at Hulk's stomach. There were no actual bullets in the six shooter, just rubber pellets that would sting now and leave a welt. But before he could pull the trigger, the Barley-bots went wild.

"No firearms allowed!" all six of the Barley-bots in the bar shouted in unison, their voice boxes no longer shrill and cheery but deep, loud, and threatening. "You are to be ejected. Do not resist."

Hulk looked down at his stomach and saw the pistol. He threw Colt down the bar, where he spilt drinks as he flew, knocking down patrons and angering drunks.

"Violence will not be tolerated. You are to be ejected. Do not resist." Now three Barley-bots advanced toward Hulk, while two made their way through the crowd to where Colt lay on the dirty barroom floor.

"To hell with this," Hulk said. With a sweep of his arm knocked the head loose off one of the Barley-bots and sent it into a woman's nose, who sat watching the action from a booth against the wall. The woman erupted immediately into a mess of blood, snot, and tears. Her male companion came to her rescue and charged Hulk.

Meanwhile, Colt had wielded his second revolver and began taking shots at the eye lenses on the bots. Chaos boomed around the bar as bots and humans went to fists with each other. Bodies were thrown toward the front of the bar and through windows by bots, while Behind-the-bar-Barley turned the bottles of beer and liquor into projectiles. The patrons who were not being forcibly removed frantically saw themselves out.

The bar was nearly empty now. All but a few injured patrons had fled. Robot pieces were strewn about the room. The only two fighters in the brawl that still stood were Colt, bloody nosed and wild eyed, and Behind-the-bar-Barley, looking nonplussed.

Barley cocked his hand behind his head, ready to throw a bottle of Bacardi, when Colt fired the remaining four pellets in his guns. One caught the bottle as it was flung toward him, the others caught Barley around the head and chest. The small yellow eye in the middle of his head went grey with static, returned red for a moment, then shuttered to black. Powered down, he fell backward and conked the back of his dome on bar. The impact left a dent with red finish impressed in chrome.

"Well then," Colt said, feeling a bit woozy. Had he hit his head? Or was he just drunk? He began to make his way out of the bar, stepping over debris and unconscious bodies, when a heavily damaged Barley-bot rose from the wreckage. He grabbed Colt by the belt with his one remaining arm and, in a final act of strength, threw him though the window. The robot collapsed backward.

On the street, laying in a pile of broken glass, Colt muttered, 'Oh no, my hair…' before losing consciousness. In the brawl, he hadn't even noticed someone slap a bracelet on his wrist, made of a wire looping into small black box. On the box, a blinking green light switched to red.


	2. 1:2 - El Primo

Part One - Invitation to Brawl

Chapter Two - El Primo

Mesilla, New Mexico - July 12th, 2025

The day El Primo was pulled into the game began like that of a modern day storybook; a fairy tale beginning, but with an apocalyptic ending. Maria woke him up with her abuelita's records and the sounds of chorizo and eggs sizzling in a skillet. They ate their eggs with red sofrito paste and danced to classic mariachi in their pajamas, Maria still in the blue apron with frills and white flowers.

They lived in a part of town that resembled old Mexico, with adobe style buildings backed close together with banners bearing colored flags stretched over the roads. They felt at home.

Maria and Primo grew up together as children in the same small town south of the border. They would play together in her abuelita's garden, swapping secrets and battling imaginary villains, from pirates to street thugs. Their favorite game was called _El Toro_. Maria would be a salsa dancer and Primo a picador. While Primo would go head to head with _El Toro_, the beast bull from hell, Maria would battle the bandits who came to take her away by throwing knives at them. They saw each other every day until Abuelita died.

Her parents were moving her to America, she told Primo on the last day they met in the garden behind Abuelita's house. They did not play that day, but made promises instead, the kind only a child's heart could believe. Maria would wait for him, would marry no one else. He would always be her first mate, her sheriff, her _picador_. Primo promised he would work hard and one day come to be with her in America.

These were promises they both kept. Maria and her family became US citizens through struggle, fighting, and legal battles. They challenged 'lost' paperwork, red tape, and confusing jargon until they were finally recognized as citizens. Primo wasn't so lucky, his efforts always ending in dead ends. Fed up with the legal system, Maria exclaimed 'Just marry me Primo! Be my husband. I am proposing!' Her anger was romantic and passionate. And Primo loved her. How could he say no?

During his time in Mexico, Primo became _El Primo_. He would enter the ring, masked and smiling, and charm the crowds and he pointed the small arena. He was the protagonist in all fights, going head to head with the most villainous wrestlers on the circuit. When he came to America, he found a small venue that agreed to hire him. It was a bit touristy, often folks in campers stopping in to see a 'real' _luchador_ show on their hikes across the American wilderness, but it had paid decently and Primo enjoyed the work.

After a lazy morning curled up on the couch, he had to go.

"Knock'em dead, _El Primo_," Maria said, kissing him softly.

"_Si, senora_," El Primo whispered back. On his way out, he lit the candle resting in front of his uncle's photo on their small ofrenda. Tio Poco had always been his biggest supporter, his rock, when he was training to be a _luchador_. He would sit ringside as Primo's coach walked him through the practices of throwing someone without fracturing an arm or jumping from the ropes without cracking a rib, playing his guitar and watching from under a wide brim black sombrero. Poco was also a showman, playing guitar in a mariachi band. He knew how important support was.

* * *

There wasn't much of a crowd that day just a few locals and one young couple in dusty traveling attire. He had gone up against a buddy of his, _El Alacrán_, and won the match after a suspenseful build up. A few people politely clapped.

"Quiet match today, huh?" Primo said to Alacrán in the locker room after. He had removed his mask slipped purple track pants over his spandex. He was still wearing his boots.

Alacrán approached him timidly, a dark, nervous look in his eyes.

"You okay?" Primo asked.

In a quick snap of his wrist -speed was always Alacrán's specialty, like the arachnid he was named for- Alacrán snapped a small wire bracelet onto Primo's wrist.

"_Que este_?" Primo snapped, pulling away.

"Many apologies, Primo," Alacrán said, tears in his eyes. "I've been offered a ride off. I had to do it. I have to think of my family."

"I don't understand. A ride off?" Primo was amazed. A trip to the space station cost millions. Only the richest could afford it. And ride from Earth was almost never gifted to another. Especially a masked wrestler with no education.

"Here, this will explain everything." Alacrán presented Primo with a tablet. The rest screened warned OPEN BEFORE REMOVING THE BRACELET. "I am so sorry, _senor_."

"I don't…" Primo began, but his cellphone chirped in his duffel bag and broke his concentration. He retrieved his cell and answered the phone.

"Primo? Primo!" the woman on the other end of the phone was screaming. "Maria! _Dios mio_, oh my God, Jesus. Maria!"

"Mama Elisa?" Primo recognized the voice of the old woman who lived in the apartment next door, a motherly figure who he and Maria had dinner with on Sunday evenings after church, but he had never heard her so upset.

"Primo, come home. Come home now. Oh my Lord! _Jesus Christo_. The blood!" Primo sprinted all the way home.

* * *

Their apartment was a wreck. The front door was smashed in and the kitchen table was flipped over. The knife rack had spilled over and steak knives were embedded in the walls. Sections of walls were torn to pieces -shotgun shrapnel- and in front of their wrecked _ofrenda_, Maria lay on the floor, a towel pressed into her stomach. Mama Elisa held her hand.

Primo dropped to his knees beside her.

"Who has done this to you, _mi amour_?" he asked. Maria looked up at him, almost peacefully.

"Ah, Primo." She was losing consciousness. Her breathing was shallow.

"I tried to call the police, but there is no one left. They have all abandoned their post." That was the story across America, the world actually. Office buildings abandoned, desks empty, phones unanswered. Why work when the world was ending?

"Maria, you will be okay. I will take care of you." Primo eyed the towel. Blood had soaked through. He couldn't bring himself to look at the wound.

"There is no helping me, Primo," Maria said. "I am almost gone."

Tears fell from Primo's eyes onto Maria's cheek. "Who has done this to you?" he asked again.

"_El Toro_," she whispered. "I love you, El Primo. _Mi picador_."

"Primo, do you smell that?" Mama Elisa said with urgency in her voice. "_Gasolina_."

Their apartment did smell like gas. They had to flee. He looked down, Maria's eyes were half opened. She had stopped breathing.

"Now, Primo!" Mama Elisa insisted. Primo kissed Maria for the last time, but before running from the apartment, he grabbed the photo of Tio Poco, laying on the floor next to Maria. He gently pushed the frame into Mama Elisa's chest.

"Go!" he said. He scooped up Maria's body and they fled the apartment. The entire second floor exploded when they reached the street.

He buried Maria in the courtyard of their building as the sun set across the desert while Mama Elisa stood vigil. Their building was a waste, a smoldering ruin. Primo marked Maria's grave with a flat stone from the small garden in the courtyard.

"Do you have a place to go?" Primo asked Mama Elisa.

"There are still a few people around. I will find a place. But Primo, where will you go?"

"_Yo lo se_, Mama."

Mama Elisa spent a few more moments with him, then without a word, left the courtyard and walked down the road. Primo looked down and saw the wire around his wrist. The tablet was in his duffel, sitting beside Maria's grave.

He retrieved it, the screen still read, OPEN BEFORE REMOVING THE BRACELET. He tapped the screen and slid the unlock tab. There was a video taking up the screen. He hit play.


End file.
